


Improper Topic

by LateralFlexor



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Doctor/Patient, First Overload, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, insinuated facial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 04:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11936169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateralFlexor/pseuds/LateralFlexor
Summary: After weeks of ineffective self-service, Bumblebee suggests Smokescreen visit Ratchet about his "symptoms."





	Improper Topic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DisorientedOwl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisorientedOwl/gifts).



                Smokescreen slid passed Arcee, for once deliberately trying to avoid any unnecessary talking. The femme did quite a number on him a few weeks ago and he thought of it often. Asking for Optimus’ forgiveness was one thing after storming out, but the missus was another mountain to climb altogether. At least the scars of his mistakes weren’t visible, otherwise she would’ve marred him.

                And for a while he considered that that was what this was all about- that the stirrings inside were something new to adulthood since his most recent protoform upgrade. He’d labeled it as guilt and moved on.

                They only came every once in a while anyways. Nothing to worry about. Ratchet’s tune-up last week hadn’t shown much of anything along the lines of malfunction. If the doc couldn’t find it, it didn’t exist.

                *Smokey,* came a beep.

                Smokescreen’s optics followed Arcee’s form out of the corridor before his attention was free. “Hey, Bee. You just online?”

                The scout pulled an arm forward to stretch his gears, *No, been up for a few Earth hours.*

                The white mech made a small smile, one minutely disturbed by his loop of thought.

                A black servo knuckled up his forearm. *You ok?*

                Smokescreen’s optics darted to Ratchet’s helm as he noticed movement at the team’s console. “I’m… yeah.”

                Ever the emotionally acute, Bumblebee asked, *You know, if you ever need somebot to talk to-*

                Dual servos gripped his wrists as he was tugged to a corner of the room, “Actually, c’mere.”

                Bee stumbled over his own peds following his friend to a corner that- if he was being honest- wasn’t all that secluded. *Whoa, whoa, ok.*

                Huddled, shaking with uncertainty, Smokescreen began, “Have you ever… I don’t know, felt, like a, a-”

                *Is it pain?*

                “No, no, it’s like-”

                The yellow mechling tilted from the semi-secretive exchange, *Maybe you’re low. I’ll get you some energon and then-*

                Smokescreen’s balled fists flung about in contained whirls, “N-no! No, Bee, you’re not listening. It’s not like that.” A foot scuff barely a room away gave him reason to hide a tantrum.

                *Talk to Ratchet.* Two patient optics, concerned with any help they could possibly offer were staring. Smokescreen felt a feeling akin to guilt; Bumblebee was only doing what he knew. Maybe he should be asking some kind of expert.

                Just not Ratchet.

                Smokescreen accepted surrender. “I can’t.”

                Bumblebee had spent his whole life around the medic. Well, as long as Smokescreen had been around, and who knew before that. As chatty as he was he found it hard to listen, and even harder now to remain still. But this wasn’t a medical problem. Why couldn’t Bee see that?

                *But he’s good at a lot of things. Even to talk to.*

                Smokescreen sighed internally, mouth drooping, “I thought that’s what you ‘n I were doing.”

                Bee looked to the opening to the common room from their haphazard hiding spot. Smokescreen was desperate to hear him speak. Or, beep as it were.

                The yellow bot’s warmth and care overcame his naivety. The black servo rested upon the round puff of his friend’s pauldron, *So what’s this ‘feeling’ you have?*

                Relief was fleeting. “I… I don’t know what it is, it’s just this itch or, or a pressure or, or something.”

                *Where?*

                Suddenly he wished he could vanish. That he hadn’t invited this uncomfortable topic into his life cycle. He couldn’t conceal the wash of paler gray over his face as he remembered futilely rubbing himself over his berthmat for nights and nights alike- even considering other objects when on duty. Primus, this was worse than his hazing into the Academy fraternity. “Around… here,” he said meekly, gesturing to virtually everything below his headlights.

                *Here?* he questioned, positioning his hand on the plating below the new recruit’s chest.

                Plates over his frame flexed, sparkrate hiking up to speeds analogous to racing. Bee’s servo moved lower, beeps blurring in Smokescreen’s audials as he kept repeating, *Here? Or maybe here?*

                The trembling of his body went unnoticed by his friend, but the white mech nearly seized as he felt his valve clench behind his panel. Hopping back, he refrained from batting the bot, untrusting of what his own hands would do next. “Yeah I guess.”

                *Uhm. Ok?* The littler bot shrugged, *You said it doesn’t hurt so… if it’s not really physical, maybe it’ll just pass.*

                Smokescreen settled at the second opinion, but the small comfort was ripped away as fast as it was teasingly introduced. *Still think you should ask Ratchet. He’d know for sure.*

                “No, no no no. You know, this made me feel better.”

                *Still think you should-*

                “I got it, Bee. Ratchet this, Ratchet that,” Smokescreen panted, failing to regain his former core temperature.

                Under the facial guard, the scout was more comforting with his words than his hands. *He is good, you know. I know he comes off a little gruff-“

                “Who does?”

                _Nuts and bolts._

                Smokescreen’s spinal column locked. Of all people…

                Chirping beyond pleasantly, Bumblebee said, *Not you, of course.*

                “Please, Bumblebee, your sarcasm could use some work,” Ratchet rumbled, as tired in voice as he was in body. “You know it looks more suspicious to clamor to the edge of a room than it does to get to your own room if you two are so intent on being private with one another.”

                Smokescreen went even more rigid at the invisible insinuation.

                *Just boy-talk, Ratchet,” Bee said innocently.

                “ _Really_ , I cannot wait to hear it. But, Smokescreen,” the medic said, striking fear into the other’s spark, “If you have an issue with your frame, you should see me.”

                “B… but it’s all figured out now,” he defended himself fretfully, already counting the astroseconds until he could slip out of the predicament. “’Yay,’ and all that.”

                The medic folded his arms, air around him heady with unrelenting fixation, “I don’t care what it is, you need to come to the medbay. I’d rather it be something little and embarrassing than something stupidity made permanent.”

                Bumblebee was utterly useless at the moment, distant and uninvolved as he stood beside the physician. Smokescreen could trick him into double-duty later for it, but it wouldn’t solve the avoidance he couldn’t have now.

                A plan didn’t come to him, instead a firm tug had him folding his wings down like a kicked seeker. “I don’t have time for this, mechling, come with me.”

                As he shimmied from the vice on his arm, he ruffled his plates, eager to maintain at least a shred of cool over his counterpart. He’d pray Bee’s childlike qualities would at least let him forget this ordeal by tomorrow.

                The recruit dragged his peds behind Ratchet. As soon as the medic turned the corner, Smokescreen couldn’t help but look back to the scout, his friend’s true glee upstaging his own a wry, toothless smile and psychotic, wide eyes.

As the last vestige of a humane audience faded away, Smokescreen became more petulant- even losing the fake smile as he defiantly padded into medbay to his doom. Ratchet was priming some kind of prod-like stabby thing as the bay doors slid shut, sealing him in with his fate.

                _You’re a great friend, Bee. A reeeeal great friend._

***

                Ratchet flicked the steel spindle before inspecting it in the light.

                “Doc, I don’t need a shot or anything-”

                “I’d be the judge of that. But until you talk, I won’t know,” he turned to the patient, arms cemented over each other in a strong fold, “Will I?”

                Smokescreen stood, keeping his limbs to himself lest they get chopped following a wrong answer. Plus this place gave him the heebie jeebies. He tried not to let the corners of his mouth draw up at that.

                _Heebie jeebies. Hilarious._

                “Fair enough,” he conceded, mind changing course to alter the mood.

                Ratchet wasn’t easily deterred. “I have a busy schedule, but if you truly are concerned about something, out of mutual _respect_ ,” he said, trying deeply not to spit so sourly the word, “I ask that you come to me.”

                Smokescreen’s mature composure cracked off, “I do respect you. Sir. Doctor? Sir Doctor-”

                “Don’t hurt yourself,” Ratchet stopped him, servo raised. He shifted his weight. “Then you’re afraid of what I’ll do.”

                “I mean-“

                “I wouldn’t do anything that medical precaution wouldn’t permit. So please, don’t hide anything on the grounds to pretend it would be better for you.” Prime came to mind as a particularly good example of a mech who avoided his appointments. But he was a better example to those who despite the pain and fear would succumb to repairs.

                Ruffling his plates, Smokescreen felt the tension in them die out a hair. He’d been in the room long enough to have offlined from blunt force trauma by now, or surely by this disease he’d harbored for the last month. From what he could see on the surface, Ratchet seemed keen to assist.

                Maybe he was just programmed that way.

                But there was more structure with Ratchet, more supremacy in his support than Bumblebee certainly had- may Primus spare him the wrath of “Smokey” later. And Smokescreen didn’t need to me told how good Ratchet was at what he did. Optimus and his famed team had been plenty known. At least, he had to discover that after the big sleep, then live it.

                Ratchet huffed, digits visibly digging to his armor. Then he spoke, “Whether or not you think it’s embarrassing, I’d like to have a look at some point this century.”

                The recruit’s stiffness returned ten-fold.

                Pushing out his lower lipplate, Ratchet supplied, “I’m no fool as to what young mechs discuss so fretfully about.” Setting his body off from the supporting counter, turning to fiddle with more tools he said, “And my audials still function.”

                With a downcast helm, Smokescreen thumbed at his wrist in circles. Ratchet wasn’t skirting much of anything in this exchange, and definitely not to smooth any fears he held onto.

                Ratchet’s look over his shoulder went unnoticed, but Smokescreen’s childlike posture was unmistakable. He personally kept a professional front and a pleasantly ignorant tone wasn’t something that went hand in hand with such. Smokescreen was old enough physically to have grown up mentally, but the war effected all bots differently.

                It’d been a long time since he’d seen such a variant.

                In as soft a tone he could muster, Ratchet assured, “I’m sure it’s not as horrible as you think.” He patted the examination table, “Hop up and I’ll take a look and you can be on your way.”

_And so can I._

                The medic batted the salty thought. He schooled his minute facial reaction and strode to the berth. The white mech hunkered down and made impressively lengthy optical-contact with the physician before coming. True- the sooner in, the sooner out.

                Doing as asked, the younger mech plopped himself on the berth, wriggling to find a sliver of comfort on the slab. His knees bonked together as Ratchet stepped ever closer, looking over his outward appearance.

                “Please describe your symptoms, Smokescreen.”

                After a few load-bearing breaths, he repeated, “It’s a… a feeling. Right around here.” The swoop of his servo was no different than what he’d performed for the little yellow Autobot.

                Cutting short a sigh, Ratchet stepped a micron closer. Out of his promised control, he vented, “I will need a bit more information than that. You said there was no pain.”

                “Because there isn’t.”

                “I… Ok, well then what is it if not that?”

                Picking into the nooks of his digits, the recruit mumbled like a caught sparkling, “I unno.”

                “Pleasure, then?”

                “Uhhhhh…”

                Ratchet’s hand slowed as it attempted to shoot out. “I… May I?”

                He nodded, albeit like somebot admitting to a nasty case of undercarriage rust.

                Thank Pit it sounded like something else. Something easier to deal with.

                The team medic’s servo roamed above the young mech’s midsection. It wasn’t spark flutters, and he damn well knew it wasn’t atrium inflammation. Few viruses yielded pleasure as a symptom. Fewer space bacteria. Had the mech caught anything aboard the pod it would have been detected long ago.

                Then he was reminded of the severity of his own age.

                Smokescreen was a tad older than their scout. Far less equally distant in terms of maturity. But that didn’t mean the white mech was impervious to what ancient medical science considered ‘perversions of the body and mind.’

                Fragging council sanctioned curriculum.

                As he felt over the interlocking plates of the silver abdomen, he thought about- if his intuition was correct- how frustrated Smokescreen must feel. At least he hadn’t turned to violent impulses or any other less tamable outlets for his proclivities. Seemed he needed a bit of encouragement to push through the barrier.

                “Well, there are no physical abnormalities, Smokescreen.”

                “Then what is it?” he piped up, searching for answers to a desperate question.

                Ratchet’s optics darted between both of the other mech’s. “…Considering you haven’t turned a shade of energon-blue, you’re not undergoing any sort of coronary artery disease, so it’s nothing even remotely under that category.”

                Twiddling his thumbs as he settled back down, the grounder sagged. “I thought that was about the spark chamber.”

                Ratchet had since turned away, the nerves in the room affecting his concentration on addressing the real issue here. He squeezed an explanation from himself, “It is, but the affliction can lead to similar discomfort such as what’s truly going on.”

                “And that would be what, doc?”

                Denta scraping over his lower lipplate, Ratchet stopped. Stopped thinking, stopped doing. “You haven’t had your first overload. You’re not dying.”

                Smokescreen flipped his lid. “Wh- Ratchet! Geez, I-”

                Dropping a rag he was wringing, Ratchet gruffed loudly, “Well, that’s what it is! It’s nothing more than that. You haven’t had a complete climax, that’s why you have this imbalance in your system-”

                “I don’t- I don’t want to hear that from you, oh my-”

                “ _I_ thought you wanted my expertise. Wait, that isn’t entirely true now is it,” Ratchet sneered. Professionally.

                Helm in his servos, Smokescreen continued to be prostrate with grief.

                Scoffing a bit, Ratchet faced him, “Are you pursuing treatment or would you prefer to go at it the old-fashioned way?”

                Smokescreen’s helm lifted from the sheer force of his optics shooting up. Ratchet’s tone suggested he knew how long he’d been grinding all over every comfortable then uncomfortable object in the base. That annoyingly familiar sound of a friend who’d caught you with your spike out and then blackmailed you into doing their homework.

                Flushed and upset, Smokescreen gave in. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

                Finally, some common sense. “You could try a full interface, or introduce a partner to assist you. Some bots aren’t able to peak their first time with mere self-service alone.”

                Ratchet was keeping this remarkably informative. But Smokescreen couldn’t decipher if that thought of his was sarcastic or earnest.

                “B-but what is the feeling?”

                Ratchet had heard it by many names and that was by far the least creative in his opinion, but he accepted anything this kid would give him. He recalled his own frame and mind lost to various youthful confusions. Everyone had them. How unfortunate for Smokescreen’s timing.

                Kneeling on one pede, the older mech steadied his voice, “When your frame initially begins to experience sexual arousal, it takes it some time to understand how to properly expel the full charge. All Cybertronians go through it with variations between them. It’s just part of growing up.”

                Smokescreen’s shy focus was zeroing in on every word, presumably whether he liked it or not.

                “Once one begins to explore his or herself through self-service, they decide on what they like and this makes it much simpler to overload. Mental investment is essential. Clouded with bothersome thoughts, you may be unable to…” Primus, how should he phrase that, “To let go, if you will.”

                Something behind Smokescreen’s optics flickered. The war, Arcee’s bitterness, attempts to assimilate, lost relics- all of it he was entangled with, except for much of the history. It all came down to context.

                “If you’ve only been at this a little while, I can see why you would otherwise be distracted…” Understatement of the year, Ratchet awarded himself. His patient was busy nodding profusely. “So I ask again, if you would like me to prescribe another… form of dealing with this.”

                Smokescreen’s head went still, hanging low. Ask Scary Ratchet for help, or keep molesting various furnishings in hopes of getting off? This couldn’t last forever, why risk it?

                “If you were wondering, I’ve seen bots deal with this for months.” Ratchet reset his optics as he stood; part of them had blurred out staying on this topic so long. “Once it happens however, it’s much simpler the times after. You’ll be fine on your own.”

                The recruit’s valve twitched under him, panel heating like the hot-tarp he’d kicked off his frame every night this week. His knees drew together again as Ratchet watched them. “Ok.”

                The older Autobot looked him over, servos threatening to make an overdramatic gesture. “’Ok’ what?”

                Gleaning any dignity that had already disintegrated earlier, Smokescreen said clearer, “Ok, to you helping.”

                Oh slag. “M… _me_ helping? I was picturing you pestering Bumblebee, maybe even Bulkhead, but certainly not me.” Apparently this evening would resume its plummet. Just when he thought he got through, it seemed more suggestions would fly right over the kid’s helm. He wondered what else would follow.

                “But… you’re the doctor.”

                Damn; maybe this shouldn’t have been spun as such a disorder to him. “That is… accurate.” How clever. “But Smokescreen, you don’t require my help. I’ve diagnosed you.”

                “And you prescribed something. And,” he went back to picking his digits yet again, “And I can’t do it by myself otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

                Ratchet’s servo swatted the other’s, “I don’t have time to repair that.” He made another sigh, this one sounding particularly defeated, “I can do a few things for you… but you realize that this isn’t necessary. And besides, most wait until they find somebot meaningful.”

                “It won’t count with you.”

                He wouldn’t question that. It was up to the patient.

                Ratchet shivered. This whole thing felt medieval. Rudimentary pseudoscience that justified doctors’ desired to bed whomever they desired. Even calling them doctors made his tank churn.

                “Very well.” Ratchet moved away to type in the lock code for the entrance. “This won’t leave this room, you know that.” Ratchet furrowed his brows; locking was premature. Glancing over at Smokescreen, he seemed to squirm.

                That could be from anything at this point.

                Keeping his distance, Ratchet adopted the habit of avoiding the inevitable, ped-tip nudging the floor’s crust, “Have you… decided upon what you enjoy best?”

                Systems whining, Smokescreen answered truthfully, “No. Haven’t had much time. I-I just know what I like by myself.”

                 “Alright.”

                Careful pedsteps carried the medic to the recruit. Smokescreen tried not to flinch as the mech he feared stood imposingly in front of him, mere feet away. Ratchet was surprised as he sank onto his knees again to hear a negative sound from the littler bot.

                “I-I don’t like oral.”

                While that wasn’t the first activity on the list the medic planned, he was relieved to see he wouldn’t be holding his servo through this. If he needed that he wouldn’t refuse, but if he had to explain what a mouth would do on a spike, it’d give him more time to rethink the entirety of the situation.

                Smokescreen wouldn’t be able to recover from that; _that_ he knew.

                “I… alright,” he accepted, “What would you like instead?”

                Fingers splaying beside him on the slab, he asked, “Could you sit up here with me?”

                Without much hesitation, Ratchet hefted himself up, thigh kept marginally from bumping the other’s. In the absence of asking for more prompts, Ratchet made himself comfortable, giving Smokescreen time to postulate.

                Soon, a white thigh other than his own pressed between his two, not forcing but merely suggesting they spread. Ratchet let the kid settle over his left leg, temperature rising noticeably on it the more Smokescreen rested his weight. His light gray panel was faintly flawed and dulled, Ratchet noted. What he presumed would come next wasn’t unusual to him, but he hadn’t had a partner suggest it in a while. Hadn’t even had a partner in a while.

                The doctor gave Smokescreen space as he supported himself upright on both hands behind him. He kept them visible, but he planned only to use them for inspiration should the racecar give the go-ahead.

                Finding it difficult to set a pace, the white mech’s chest huffed as he bumped the thigh with his panel. It looked like a balancing act to Ratchet, but he’d let Smokescreen sort it out. No need to smother him.

                Denta sinking into his lip, Smokescreen pressed down, just enough to feel the buzz of Ratchet’s frame against his interface systems. Closed, he could sense the warmth of another person. Open, … well he wasn’t so sure.

                Sensing the inability to start, Ratchet cautiously entered his servo into the picture, wordless as he let it assume the shape of the young mech’s aft. He pulled him against his metal, his own patience admirable as he let Smokescreen fill in the rest.

                There were many possibilities to add to this mix later, but for now Ratchet had the feeling Smokescreen was more of a grinder than some mechs. External stimulation was pleasant enough for himself- more so when he was younger and had the time- but it would be fine if he never opened.

                He just hoped he understood that.

                Cupping the firm aft, Ratchet let his thumb brush over the under edge of the mechling’s hip. Smokescreen mewled, hips bucking unevenly. With two hands currently on either side the supporting berth, it wasn’t hard for his processor to comprehend the one on him wasn’t his. His mind crackled, spike pressing into the hidden wall of its housing at the connection.

                A minute passed before Ratchet decided to squeeze, bringing the other back from the rim of fantasy land as he noticed the fluttering of Smokescreen’s optics. His frame appeared to be on a decent, tiring already at holding himself up. Hoisting his almost pinned frame back up, Ratchet supported the mech on him with the hand previously gripping his aft. Over his chest and headlights it went, fondling the metal’s curvature as his frame subtly bobbed.

                Helm curling inward, Ratchet tapped at it with his own, nuzzling the overworked Autobot on his lap. Smokescreen’s pedes continued to widen, frame more eager than ashamed as the first trickle of lubricant slid out. His panting became audible, less contained and more ragged as he humped the round curve of the medic’s thigh.

                Ratchet’s frame shook out an ex-vent as he felt his own spike stir underneath. He felt tempted to boldly insist the mech open so he could at least see, but that felt like a cruel advantage he’d be taking. Overloading for him required something inside; it was a personal preference that he savored the choke of his own valve over the pleasing shape of a spike. Smokescreen may like it too and not know yet. It wasn’t as if they had any toys laying around.

                “Smokescreen.”

                Optics tightly shut, he responded, “Y-yeah?”

                “Would you like me to finger you?”

                Frame creaking, Ratchet thought the question may have sent the kid straight into shutdown, but he stilled his hips, lifting a small distance enough for the medic to witness a small puddle. Smokescreen was uncertain, that much was clear.

                Helm tilting up to make sure he was still online, Ratchet crooned in his soft tenor voice, “Or at least let me play with your spike. At times, vulnerability may be the most potent ingredient.” Ratchet let his servo drag down to the mechling’s waist. “I found holding it all in makes it more complicated.”

                Twitching, tensing, and struggling to retain a normal core temperature, Smokescreen exhaled, “O-only if you have yours out too.”

                Ratchet hummed, vibrations dancing along the self-conscious frame above him. Tentatively, he released his spike, unwilling to be even a pinch shy about it. Smokescreen followed his lead a moment later, light blue ridges of his member striking sensors along Ratchet’s erection. The medic sighed shakily at the relief and subsequent release.

                The younger mech made his other milestone known as Ratchet felt the unmistakable slippery folds of a valve rest on his leg. Still weary, Smokescreen attempted to keep his actions to himself.

                Ratchet was having none of that.

                “Hump me like you mean it,” he said, voice urgent and begging enough to trick Smokescreen into believing he was in the dominant position. He didn’t mind not being able to finger him this way, but at least Smokescreen was comfortable enough. Ratchet on the other servo was scalding.

                Smokescreen’s metal capacity had room for little other than “be startled” and “rub mindlessly.” Ratchet’s voice had never said anything in the ballpark of being so lewd, especially not to him. The directness of the older mech made him hungry to experience the one reward he wanted now more than even praise from Prime:

                Overload.

                Crooning feebly, Smokescreen tilted his helm back, exposing himself as the Autobot medic pulled him close by the round plates of his aft, yanking his athletic frame with every forward motion of the grind. Desperate calipers inside the wetted valve yearned to squeeze on something- anything- but made do with the white thigh. Ratchet let the tip of Smokescreen’s spike tap at his as he drew him in, causing him dribble his own lines of fluid from the slit of his spike.

                Looking down to their shared mess, Ratchet saw the little bead of the mech’s node. Hopefully he wouldn’t be weakly approached tomorrow about the pain it had experience being rubbed on so frenzied, but at least he could teach him more on how to take care of himself.

                Smokescreen had much to learn and little to no bot to be taught by.

                Ratchet’s spark tensed in fleeting sorrow. Now he supposed his compassion was not so innocent.

                “Smokescreen,” Ratchet said, one of the only words exchanged this entire scene of pleasure.

                Fighting to not cry out, said mech whined, “A-ah, what’s wrong, do I s-stop?”

                This mech was a sweet fool. Ratchet bravely sieged the white and blue spike. “No, I want you to come for me. I believe you’re ready.”

                Whimpering pitifully, he squirmed, spike pushing forth a portion of pre-fluids. “N-nh what if I can’t?”

                Ratchet’s face assumed a devilish smile, one that had Smokescreen’s spark in a vice of curiosity. In an attempt to feel out another kink or two of his patient’s, Ratchet’s servo clamped up to grab the blue ‘V’ of Smokescreen’s collar plating and heave him in, “Then perhaps I should have Optimus come in and supervise you as you tumble helm-first into your first long, wet overload on the soaked lap of his medic.”

                Valve spread over the now thinly blue thigh of the medic, Smokescreen gasped, optics damp and stinging at the overwhelming stimulation of his most intimate areas. His helm tossed back, optics rolling and crying out unabashedly as he surmounted his peak; his spike squirted more than just a few streams of pent up transfluid over Ratchet’s grille and doors, frame quivering with dwindling tension. His valve tightened on the flat, evasive metal on Ratchet’s thigh, more fluid staining it than the medic thought possible.

                Door wings stiff and straight up, Smokescreen was lost in time and space. His optics flickered online through their lidded haze just as Ratchet was lamely attempting to hide his unprofessional interest in liberating his own charge.

                He caught the mechling just as he started to fall from the medberth like timber. Smokescreen’s dead weight was an easy tell to how spent he was and Ratchet saw fit to return to his duties, “How are you feeling?”

                “W… mh.”

                Ratchet’s astoundingly dry servo played alongside his finial, “Mm?”   

                “More, p-please, I want to see yours.”

                HUD pinging him with incessant notifications of excessive charge clogged his primary data-processing functions. Smokescreen slid snake-like back onto his feet and he dropped to his kneeguards with beguiling grace, thighs ever damp as he left his equipment out.

                Ratchet felt alone in reality at that moment. He pottered onto his feet, Smokescreen’s fear wiped clean from his faceplate as he eyed between the medic’s pedes. Engine purring, ramping up for his own first overload of the evening shift, Ratchet began to pump his spike.

                Anything for a patient.


End file.
